Father's Day
by Aseret Kitsune
Summary: Father’s Day came around like it always did and Dad stayed at the office instead of coming home like he always did… I waited for him like I always did… Dib thinks back about every Father’s Day and the reoccurring absence of his idol.


Just a one-shot in honor of Father's Day. This isn't a really happy piece, but…well, just read it. Hopefully you'll enjoy.

Warnings: Um, sad and angsty, a neglectful father, threats of gouging out eyes, and, um…That's about it, I believe. Well, it's not that long.

Pairings: None. Imagine that.

Summary: Father's Day came around like it always did and Dad stayed at the office instead of coming home like he always did…I waited for him like I always did… Dib thinks back about every Father's Day and the reoccurring absence of his idol.

Disclaimer: Almost forgot; I don't own this.

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When I was three I made my daddy a card with Bigfoot on it. I spent a long time on it; about three hours, just trying to perfect it for my idol, the man I admired.

That day, Daddy didn't come home. He stayed at the office, working. When I did see him in the flesh, it was a week later. He didn't even glance at the card I eagerly handed him. A few hours later, he left.

After that, two-year-old Gaz found me huddled on a corner of the couch, crying. She glared at me and kicked my leg-hard. Instead of the usual hate and rage that thrived in her young eyes, sympathy lined the scowling orbs.

I went into the kitchen and got Gaz some milk. Then I hugged her. It was the first hug I gave my sister that didn't end with me face down on the floor, my arms temporarily crippled.

When I was four I took a special picture of both me and Gaz. I put it on the inside of a homemade Father's Day card that had a green alien on the front. I knew Daddy would like it.

Daddy was busy that whole month and only came home when both Gazzy and I were asleep. When I was able to personally hand Daddy my gift, he just patted my head and put it on his work table, not bothering to look inside. He started fiddling with some wires and stuff, telling me to go off and play.

Gazzy was three-a whole year younger than me-at the time. She came up to my room and banged on the door. She didn't wait for any reply, she just threw open wide the door. Pulling me out from under my bed, she scowled at me. There wasn't an emotion other than sympathy in her brown, honey-like eyes.

We went downstairs and I got Gazzy a juice box and the last Luchable. She actually shared it with me. It was the first meal we ever shared, willingly.

When I was five, I painted a picture of Daddy, Gazzy, and me on the moon. We were all smiling and so happy-even Gaz. Father's Day was just around the corner and I wanted to give my idol something special and from the heart. I knew I had succeeded.

Daddy came home the day _after _Father's day-his day. I don't think he saw me when I hugged him around the legs and waved my painting up at him. No, he didn't see me-he couldn't have. His mind was somewhere far off, farther than the moon.

Gaz came into the kitchen and found me sniffling at the table. She climbed her four-year-old self into the chair next to me, scowling. She said I was giving her a headache with all my sniffling so I forced myself to stop. She wasn't giving me a hard, commanding look like she usually did, but rather a sympathizing one.

I got Gaz a cup of apple juice then took out a box of cold, leftover pizza. She let me have a few pieces. I smiled at my baby sister and for once, her lips twitched up slightly. That was the first time she gave me even a mild, beginning of a smile. I almost felt like we were on the moon.

When I was six and Father's Day came around, I built a metal miniature of Daddy. He just _had_ to love this gift! I was so thrilled and excited that I just couldn't wait for Father's Day.

Daddy couldn't make it home that day, or the next day. Or the day after that. Nor the day after _that. _Not even the next _week _after that. Nope, Daddy couldn't come home until a few months later. When he finally received my present, he patted my head but didn't take it. I just stood there, present in (small, pale, shaking) hands, numbly until he left a bit later.

Gaz, five and already able to make anyone cower in fear, came and sat next to me on the couch. I stared blankly at the T.V. as she complained about hunger. She didn't order me to get her anything like she normally did, though. I asked why the television lied and made it look like families actually spent the holidays together. She said nothing and looked at me sadly for a split second. She shrugged and I sighed.

I warmed Gazzy up a slice of pizza and went back to the couch. She gave me all the pieces of pepperoni. After that, Gazzy let me ling my arm around her shoulders and hold her close. My head was against her chest and she didn't even seem to mind the physical contact, not to mention the tears staining her anything-but-bright shirt. It was the first time we had ever been that close, in a compassionate manner anyway.

When I was seven and Father's day was only a week away, I went out and bought a photo album. In it I put dozens of pictures of me and Gaz that I took just that week. It was for him to love, cherish, and keep close to always remember us with. I knew he'd enjoy and appreciate it.

Daddy called the night before Father's Day and said he wouldn't be able to make it home for awhile. Crestfallen-but glad that he had at least informed us-I clutched the photo album close to my chest and waited by the door for him to come. I was rewarded twenty-seven days, six hours, and thirty-two seconds later. Daddy ignored me, though, when I jumped up and thrust the gift at him. He just went to bed without a word.

Gaz, six and already addicted to video games, found me hours later huddled by the door. Without pausing her game, she looked down at my pitiful form, her fingers still pressing buttons with some sort of sixth sense, and sighed. She nudged me in the ribs with her foot and told me to get over it. A strange sadness laced her words.

Into the kitchen I went, getting my baby sister a bowl of cereal with milk. I laid it in front of her where she had recently sad down at the table. Climbing into a chair myself, I looked at her quizzically. She said nothing, just played her game and shoved food into her mouth. I laid my head down on the table and she rested her elbows on it. She did it gently, though, as if I'd break. We both spent a comfortable night-morning like that.

When I was eight I got a great gift idea for Dad; life size models of his kids. If he loved us, he'd love them.

Father's Day came around like it always did and Dad stayed at the office instead of coming home like he always did. Saddened but not surprised, I waited for him like I always did and when he finally did come home (thirteen days, six hours, and fifty-three seconds late) I gave him my present. I thought I did a pretty good job on them and I hoped Dad would think so, too. He didn't say a thing about them, however, as he went down to his lab to work on his experiments.

That night Gaz, seven-years-old and a perpetual scowl on her face, found me on the roof. She sat down besides me, eyes concentrated on her Game Slave. I sighed, leaned back on my hands, and starred up at the night sky, not realizing the streak of wetness down my cheeks. Gaz noticed, though.

My sister actually turned off her game for _me_. She actually, unbelievably set it aside and told me to wipe away my tears before she gouged out my eyes. I smiled, genuinely, at her and obeyed. She gazed up at the night sky with me, resisting the urge to start up her game again.

When I was nine I really couldn't think of any gift to give Dad. I mean, he didn't _need _anything-that I could give him, anyway- and I didn't really know what he'd want. Then a brilliant-if I do say so myself-idea struck me; I'd cook dinner for Dad.

It was perfect; dinner was ready and Dad had called earlier saying that he would, in fact, be able to make it home that night. I was so elated that I practically skipped for joy. I didn't, though, for fear of Gaz's wrath.

There was and accident at the labs, unfortunately, so Dad couldn't make it. I couldn't believe it, though I really shouldn't have been surprised; Lady Luck never enjoyed my company much. So all I could do was sit in morose silence at the table, watching my slaved-over meal grow cold. That's where eight-year-old Gaz found me this time.

She was seething angry. Fire burned in her scowling eyes. Her fists were clenched, her nails digging into her own skin. She was cursing…but not at me. No, to me she sympathetically patted my shoulder and ate my dinner. She even gave me a compliment; the first one ever received from her…from anyone besides Mom.

Gaz tried to give Dad a Father's Day gift once; it had been about as successful as my attempts. She never tried again.

Father's Day never brought me and Dad together, but it did bring me and Gaz together. There's irony in that. There's irony in everything that surrounds me. Doesn't matter, though; me and Gaz are close on that one day of the year.


End file.
